


Clockwork

by celestialskiff



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Adults doing boring adult things CW, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Quentin Coldwater, Bittersweet Ending, Body Hair, But there are a lot of kids in this fic, Canon Disabled Character, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Curtain Fic, Depression, Eliot and Quentin are a rock solid couple, Fen/Margo Hanson background/implied, Fillory (The Magicians), Fluff and Angst, Julia Wicker/Penny Ayiodi background/implied, Light Dom/sub, M/M, New Jersey, Oral Sex, inability to have children, light humiliation kink, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20652833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: “Quentin still broody?” Margo asked, when they were sipping brandy on the porch after dinner.A curtain fic in which Quentin and Eliot can’t have the family they’ve longed for. Quentin mends toys; Eliot makes coffee for everyone.





	Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my betas: **capeofstorm**, my first and best reader, and **hetrez**, whose insight and thoughtful commentary hugely helped to shape and clarify this story. 
> 
> This is a story about being wanting to have children but being unable to do so -- a reality for a lot of couples. It's not a completely happy story, but Eliot and Quentin love one another and are able to find an equilibrium in that, and I hope that makes it feel relatively optimistic. However, please take care of yourself when reading: some of the issues raised may be triggering or upsetting, especially if you're dealing with these issues yourself.

“She kind of likes it if I lift her over my head,” Quentin said, doing so: the baby stared down at him, fussed, wriggled. Quentin cradled her against his chest instead. 

“I never know what she wants either,” Julia said. “She gave you the run around, huh?” 

“Poor Kiran.” Quentin traced her cheek with his finger. “Four hours away from Mom is hard when you’re this teeny.” 

Eliot leant against the counter, sun in his eyes. Quentin and Julia were silhouetted against the kitchen windows. Julia sitting, looking up at Quentin, while Quentin gazed at the baby. From this angle, it looked like they were a family, Eliot an outsider. 

“Do you want milk, kiddo?” Julia held out her arms, and Quentin passed over Kiran. She cried more urgently, arms flailing. “That’s the only thing that helps in this cold dark world, right?” 

Then Julia was calmly removing a breast from her top, right there at their kitchen table, which. Eliot should have completely expected, and was not going to consider a big deal, but. If asked, he would have assumed that if he ever saw Julia’s boobs, there would be a lot more alcohol involved, and Quentin would be looking at her with more lust and less tender concern. 

Kiran whimpered again, and then her cries cut off. Her lips smacked appreciatively. 

“My boobs are the solution to all problems, huh?” Julia was cooing. “You’re just like your Dad.” 

Eloit waited for Quentin to say something like, _Jesus I do not need to know about you and Ayiodi_, but he perched in the chair opposite Julia, and said, “Has her latch improved?” 

“Yeah, hopefully I’m done with mastitis. She had to nurse every hour on the hour and that cleared it up.” Julia sighed. “I was pretty bored. I couldn’t sleep, holding her, and she hated it if I tried to watch TV. Bill ended up reading to me.” 

“Oh no! I was just reading an article about treatment for cracked nipples...” 

“I don’t know if that was the problem. My nipples have been OK.” Julia touched the baby’s cheek as Kiran made a small slurpy noise. “My ducts seem to block really easily. My doctor said it happens.” 

Quentin looked concerned. “And is there anything else you can do to keep the ducts... you know... happy?” 

“Does anyone need a drink?” Eliot broke in, because he was doing his best, honestly, but there was only so much nursing conversation he could take at 3pm on a Sunday. Or really any day. 

“Mmm, some ice water would be great,” said Julia, and Eliot spent some time fixing it with lime: he was still an excellent host even if his guests’ requests had become more and more boring over the years. 

He went upstairs afterwards to mirror-call Alice and discuss business, but distantly, in lulls in the conversation, he could hear Quentin and Julia talking and laughing, and the occasional shriek from the baby. Even the shrieks sounded happy. 

Eliot wasn’t surprised when he found Quentin crying later that evening. They’d had good days lately, but while Quentin loved Kiran, seeing her brought it all up again. Eliot stood in the bedroom doorway: the moon was full, and in its light he could see the hunch of Quentin’s back, the shiver of his shoulder blades. 

“Come here, baby.” Eliot sat beside him. 

Quentin remained curled up, facing away from him. Then sighed, and flowed onto Eliot’s lap, pressing his cheek against Eliot’s thigh. Eliot tangled his fingers into Quentin’s hair. The familiar softness of it. 

“We could try again.” The words formed uneasily in Eliot’s mouth. “We didn’t give surrogacy a real chance.” 

“Because we couldn’t afford it, and it made us miserable,” Quentin’s breath came out in a shudder. “It’s not going to happen for us. Not by adoption, not surrogacy. We’re not meant to be parents.” 

Eliot’s chest ached to hear Quentin say that. They’d been turned down, again and again, as potential adopters, mostly because of Quentin’s ongoing mental health problems. And every time, Eliot watched something inside Q grow a little smaller, as though a loyal and loving dog was being kicked. Then the surrogacy: the failed attempts at IVF, the hope and money dwindling away. 

“You are, though,” Eliot said, miserably, stroking the nape of Quentin’s neck. “I’ve seen you with Teddy: I know what a wonderful dad you are.” 

Quentin sat up, hugging himself. “Teddy...” he repeated softly. 

The memories of Teddy were dim, sun-bleached. Eliot remembered the tilt of his face, the weight of him on his shoulders, but baby-Teddy was mixed up with memories of arguments from when he was older. Eliot saw the freckled face of their daughter-in-law, his grand-daughter held in the crook of her arm. It was harder, now, to hold it all in his head.

“We could put another mortgage on the house. There’s got to be a way to do this...” 

“I can’t.” Quentin turned his head away. “I can’t hope any more. It hurts too much.” His breath came out in a shivery gasp. “I was a dad once. I’m lucky.” 

His voice small and hollow, echoing in the room. A sudden desire for whisky burned the back of Eliot’s throat. He felt useless, and miserable in his own right. He wanted to suggest a magical solution, as he’d done once or twice before: but voicing it again felt like a betrayal. Magic was huge, chaotic, beautiful: it consumed. To demand a child from it, no matter the consequences, would be an act of hubris. The suggestion always turned Quentin pale, made him look at Eliot, like, for a second, he didn’t really know him. 

Eliot curled his fingers in Quentin’s hair. He felt alone in a way he couldn’t explain. And he was exhausted by this: by how used to it he was. Used to knowing there was no way to fix this. Used to feeling hopeless. All he could offer Quentin was the simple comfort of his arms. When they were thirty, that had been enough. Now, it wasn’t. 

**

“He still broody?” Margo asked, when they were sipping brandy on the porch after dinner. 

“Yeah. Me too,” Eliot said. She hadn’t been back from Fillory for four long months and Eliot – missed her so much. Missed her more than he missed having hips that didn’t ache from misuse by a Monster. Missed her more than he missed Ibiza. He wondered if he could take time off; if he and Quentin could go back with her: Fillory, for them both, brought a mixture of joy and of pain – sometimes it seemed like they should move there permanently; sometimes it felt like these four walls in New Jersey were all that kept them sane. 

“Not like he is, though.” Margo stretched her legs in front of her. She looked – incongruous here in suburbia, and it wasn’t just because of her flawless couture, when their neighbours usually wore yoga pants. Margo spent so much time away from Earth that now she was a tourist here: curious and transient. 

Eliot swallowed, wondering what to admit to her, and what to admit to himself. “I do want kids, Bambi. But I guess... I can see ways of being happy, with just me and Quentin. And you.” He sighed. “But I think Q is going... to mourn for a long time. Maybe forever.” 

“I’m glad Fen has Mareth for all of that,” Margo said, referring to her co-husband. “I’m not a natural.” 

Eliot smiled, because he’d seen the way she talked to Fen’s two boys. He leant his cheek against her shoulder. “You love your tiny Fillorians, though.” 

She shrugged, dislodging him. “Kind of. But I’m always glad when I hand ‘em back to Mareth.” 

She brushed her hair back: the movement of her wrist precise and familiar. She didn’t dye her hair: at her temples, it curled long and silvery, mixing with the dark strands. But not matter how much they changed, she was his Margo, his home. 

He took her hand. Saw the old, flat scar from her banishment from Fillory. Thought of all the things she’d done for him. That was one of the things that set nightmares at his throat when he slept in Whitespire: the chaos he’d caused; the doors they’d opened in Fillory and could never close. 

“I miss when everyone was fun,” Eliot said. 

“Sweetie, only you and I were ever fun. And even then, you were pretty dark.” 

Eliot laughed; drained his brandy. “OK, that’s not... incorrect.” 

“We threw the best parties,” Margo said, and Eliot didn’t like her use of the past tense, though it was true: they hadn’t thrown a party in a long time. “But I think I liked it best when it was just me and you...” She leant into him, her body warm and familiar. “And Quentin, sometimes. When we were planning, anticipating... When we were teasing each other...” 

Eliot tucked his chin between her neck and shoulder. She smelt of Fillory, somehow – of spice and hay. It sent a thrill of pleasure through him. 

“Where is he, anyway?” Margo asked. “Brooding?” 

“Hmm.” Eliot traced his fingers over her wrist. “He’s been napping a lot.” Which wasn’t a good sign. Usually meant Quentin was in a downward spiral which – Eliot knew they could ride it out, but fuck. It was going to hurt. 

Margo pulled herself upright, using Eliot’s shoulders as leverage. Smoothed her dress, pushed open the backdoor. Her voice rang out into the house, “Q! Puppy! We need you!” 

Bambi was never afraid of making herself heard. 

Quentin appeared from his workroom. Hair tousled, but he didn’t look like he’d been asleep. He was fiddling with an ornate lock he’d picked up at a junk sale a few weeks ago. 

“I was giving you space in case Eliot needed to talk about me.” He looked like he could use a drink: Eliot felt remiss. 

“And he did. And now we need you,” Margo said. She touched him under the chin. “You haven’t said hello to me properly.” 

Quentin raised his eyebrows. “And how’s that?” 

She tilted up, kissed him. Tongue and teeth. “On your knees, baby. Like you love.” 

Quentin looked like he might not be up for it. A shift in posture, staring at his hands. He swallowed. “Let me wash up first, and then maybe in the bedroom? This hardwood is going to kill my knees.” 

Margo tugged his hair. “God, you’re so boring. Yes, yes, go. Eliot and I will get started without you.” 

**

In fact, Quentin and Margo got started without _him_. Eliot went to the kitchen to pull down the blinds and switch on the dishwasher – because, yes, he _was_ boring now – and bring a jug of water and Quentin’s night-time meds upstairs. 

He heard Margo – “God, your hair is so greasy. When was the last time you washed? Don’t you care at all what Eliot thinks of you? He’s doing eye-make up and ironing his shirts, and you’re what? Lying in bed and jerking off?” 

Quentin’s response, whiny, “I’m – I hardly ever jerk off.” 

“Can’t get it up? How old are you now, like fifty?” 

And then Quentin snorted with laughter, “I’m thirty-six. I’m younger than you.” 

Eliot pushed the door open; put down the water before he looked at them. Quentin – naked, kneeling in front of Margo. Not hard, but more aroused than Eliot had seen him in – weeks. Looking up at her with a familiar exasperated adoration. 

Eliot could never bring himself to insult Quentin like that. Not even when he knew Q was just – begging for it. He was too afraid of getting it wrong, of hurting him. And the times he’d tried, it’d felt – raw. Too personal, as though he’d been rubbing salt in Quentin’s wounds. It didn’t work for Q either, because he could see how uncomfortable Eliot was. 

So now he left it to Bambi. She knew what she was doing. 

“I’d pull your hair because I know you’re a slut for it, but it’s too goddamn greasy. We’ll have to hose you down outside. Like the badly trained puppy you are.” 

“If I’m a puppy, then you’re supposed to take care of me,” Quentin said, eyes sliding over to Eliot’s, and then back to Margo. 

“Oh, just because I’m part of the ruling counsel of a small nation and I’m _busy_, you can do whatever you like when I’m not looking?” She touched his cheek. Finger traced the bags under his eyes. “How selfish can you get.” 

Quentin’s chin went down. 

“I forget how much you need us. Poor Eliot, he has so much work with you.” 

Quentin looked ashamed, in a way that made Eliot want to go to him. Gather him in his arms. But Quentin’s breath was quick, his cock hardening: he wasn’t distressed, or at least, not in a way they couldn’t handle. Eliot sat beside Margo, leant into her sinewy warmth. “I’ve missed my good boy,” Eliot said. 

And Quentin – _shivered_. A frisson running through his whole body. “I’ll be so good. You’ll see.” 

Margo laughed in response, kissing Eliot’s cheek. “My god, he’s so easy.” 

Still kneeling, Quentin spread his thighs. Hand went for his cock. 

Margo clicked her tongue. “You know the rules, puppy.” 

It has been years since Quentin showed any shame for wanting this, for wanting them like this, and thinking of that, Eliot felt profoundly grateful. He wound his fingers into Quentin’s – admittedly greasy – hair. “Bambi’s had a long day. She deserves to get off, don’t you think?” 

**

It was a good week. Margo pegged them on consecutive nights, pulled their hair, instructed Quentin to eat her out at the kitchen table – and cuddled Quentin in her arms, made him watch 90s rom-coms with her, and convinced him to go back to therapy. 

Eliot had no idea how they ever coped without her. 

And then a rabbit came. The house was briefly full of the burning-sweet scent of magic. Margo had to depart as she always did – at once, leaving a hollow behind her. Reminding Eliot that as much as she belonged with him, she also belonged in another world. 

After she left, they did grocery shopping; Eliot made them eggs and avocado on sourdough toast, and then got out the spells he was supposed to be working on far Alice at the library. He’d been neglecting them. 

He couldn’t concentrate, and wasn’t surprised when Quentin stumbled in, teary-eyed, and curled into Eliot’s lap, a bundle of elbows and snot. 

His hair was clean and soft, smelling of Margo’s thyme-and-geranium shampoo. Eliot held him; inhaled him. Felt small and alone. “How –” A long gap, as Quentin tried to catch his breath. “How can I be so sad about kids when I can’t even – take care of myself – when I need – when I _need – so much –”_

Eliot rested his chin on the top of Quentin’s head. His own chest hurt. “People are complex, baby. Being needy doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be an excellent parent. That’s never even been a question.” 

Quentin snuffled, sighed. He didn’t argue – and that made Eliot feel that what he’d said had been inadequate. If he was starting to agree with you, Quentin argued the details. If he didn’t agree, he just let the words wash over him. Eliot squeezed the back of Quentin’s neck. 

He imagined – sometimes, unbidden, an image would come to him: of himself in a park, autumn leaves on the ground. He was pointing out something – a squirrel, a bird – to a small child. Not Teddy. A non-existent child. He and the child would look up at the same time, and there would be Quentin, coming down the path towards them. Sunlight in his hair. Leaves crunching under his feet. 

Eliot’s throat burned. 

Quentin sat up, rubbing his face, and Eliot took a silk handkerchief out of his pocket. Quentin accepted it, and then stared at the scrap of cloth. “Really?” 

“It’ll feel good against your eyes,” Eliot said. 

“Jesus.” Quentin pressed the square to his face, dabbing at his damp nose. “Jesus, Eliot, you’re so good to me.” 

Which made Eliot’s throat – burn – even more. Because he wanted to say: _No, I’m not. I don’t deserve you._ And _I want to give you everything you want, and I can’t. _

“I wish...” Quentin swallowed wetly again. “I wish I could have a kid, so I could tell them about my dad. About how much he loved me, and how much he’d love them. It’s... It’s so stupid, why is that important?” 

“It is important.” Eliot took the handkerchief from Quentin and cleaned up some snot Quentin had missed. “But, you know... You could tell Kiran about him.”

Quentin shook his head. “It’s not... I love Kiran, but she needs to know about her family, about Julia and 23 – _Bill_ – and the things that matter to them. There’s only so much of us one little kid can hold.” 

“I’m not sure you can ever give a kid too much love,” Eliot said, but Quentin shook his head more firmly. 

“Some things are just for us, El. And we’ll have to hold them by ourselves, if we don’t have anyone to give them to.”

“We can do that.” Eliot wasn’t entirely sure he understood. But he could say yes now, and figure out the details later. 

Quentin kissed him, clumsily, on the jaw. Slid off Eliot’s lap, and then apologised when Eliot began rubbed the feeling back into his thighs. “God, I’m the worst,” Quentin said, bending to massage Eliot’s calves. “I didn’t think.” 

Eliot tousled Quentin’s hair. “I’m fine, baby.” 

Another pause. Then Quentin looked up at him, still kneeling. “Can I be your good boy tonight?” he said, voice soft, as though he was nervous, as though Eliot would ever say no. 

**

Eliot went to the Neitherlands twice a week or so to meet Alice. After all this time, the Library still made him itchy. He wasn’t a big reader. He mostly worked on translocation spells, and, simultaneously, networking, opening up the space to more people who needed it. Most of the time, he could do that from New Jersey, but he enjoyed some things about the days he travelled: coffee with Sheila; the reminder that, sometimes, magic could be wild and beautiful; meeting Alice – who could be guaranteed not to talk about mortgages or childcare or her dog – or literally anything except magic. 

Eliot sometimes worried about that. But she seemed more herself than she’d ever been, and Sheila said she made sure Alice remembered to eat regular meals. He spent a busy afternoon tinkering with a communication spell, and then talked down three angry hedge witches. He was feeling better when he portalled back to the city, and even felt patient on the commute home. 

It was early evening: when he opened the front door he heard – a child’s laugh followed by a strange humming sound. Then a woman’s voice. 

Very odd. He investigated: in the living room, a small, round toddler was following the progress of a tiny helicopter around the ceiling. A woman – much taller than Quentin; same brown, almond-shaped eyes as the kid – was thanking Q, hand on his arm. 

For a moment, the gestures and the tiny flying helicopter made Eliot think the two people were Magicians too. And then he realised – no, he’d seen this toddler before. They were neighbours. Quentin was holding a remote control. 

The toddler bounced on his heels, “Well done, heli-copter!” Stumbling over ‘copter’ but determined to get it out. The kid’s face was proud as Quentin sent the helicopter into the corners of the room. 

“Hello,” Eliot said. He wasn’t used to walking into rooms and attracting so little attention. 

The adults looked over, away from helicopter and child. 

Quentin was smiling. Dimples everywhere. “Hey.” Turned his attention back to the remote control, sent the helicopter circling around the child’s head. 

“Your husband is a genius,” the woman said. “You’d better keep a close grip on him, or I’ll marry him myself.” 

“Because of my way around electronics?” Quentin asked.

“No one can fix these toys!” The woman met Eliot’s eyes. “Dan would not stop crying about it. And it was damn expensive too, with all that electric nonsense. I didn’t know what to do: and then Quentin showed up.” 

“He does have a way of stepping in a the right moment,” Eliot moved to stand by Quentin, kissed the top of his head, surprising himself by feeling proprietary. “He’s always happy to fix things though, even without a marriage licence.” 

“That’s true,” Quentin said, guiding the helicopter down. “Any time, Rhonda, honestly.” 

Dan held out his hand to the helicopter. “Are you going to catch it, buddy?” Quentin asked, hunkering down. Eliot could almost feel Quentin’s concentration as he guided the helicopter. He wanted to help out with just a gesture of physical magic, but was fairly certain Q would be mad at him if he did. 

The helicopter missed Dan’s outstretched hands, but he lunged for it. “Remember, be very gentle of the propeller,” Quentin said. Then shrugged, as Dan hugged the helicopter to his chest. “I can always fix it again.”

“You’re good at flying it too,” Rhonda said. “Me and Kit – my partner – are useless. We probably should have waited til he was bigger to get him something with a remote control.” 

Quentin nibbled his lip. “I can... tinker with it, if you like. Make it easier to fly.” 

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that!” Rhonda said. 

“He’d enjoy it,” Eliot explained. “You should see his workroom.” 

“Are you an engineer?” Rhonda asked, and Quentin shrugged, retreating back into his shirt. Quentin tinkered with magical items, improved them; sometimes he made something beautiful and sold it at a loss, because nothing he spent so many hours on could repay the labour. It wasn’t exactly a career, and it was hard to explain to anyone, especially muggles. 

“He’s good with his hands,” Eliot said, which covered a lot of bases. He asked Rhonda if she wanted a drink, which was her cue to become flustered and say she needed to get Dan home. She left the remote control with Quentin, and he told her he’d drop it over. 

“They seemed nice.” Eliot went into the kitchen: remains of Quentin’s lunch on the table, breakfast dishes in the sink. “We should probably talk to our neighbours occasionally.” 

Quentin hovered in the kitchen doorway, taking in the mess. Eliot wasn’t mad when he didn’t remember to clean up, or forgot he had a house: was glad when Quentin was feeding himself, but he knew Quentin felt bad about it anyway. 

“It’s hard.” Quentin went to the sink and began filling it with cold water. “To talk to people? But yeah. They did seem nice.” 

**

Quentin was wearing boxers and the Hufflepuff socks Margo had given him last year, lying on his stomach on the bed. He’d cancelled all his plans that week – even the electronics class he taught one evening a week at the local high school, and he loved that – but he hadn’t cancelled on Julia and Kiran. If he had, it would’ve been a really bad sign, Eliot thought. 

Eliot took one of Quentin’s feet, squeezed. “You might need to put some pants on, baby.” 

“Don’t look at me.” Quentin’s voice was muffled. 

Eliot sat beside him. “Why not?” 

“Because I’m freaking out about seeing a five-month-old in my own house. I’m fucking ridiculous.” 

“Yeah, but I know you are.” Eliot put his hand on one of Quentin’s hairy little thighs. He skin was cold under Eliot’s fingers: how long had he been here? 

Quentin sighed, and said against the pillow, “I go to therapy and I learn not to be ashamed of my brain breaking and I internalise all this self-care shit, so when I fall down a hole again, it’s less awful, because I’m used to it and I have these _tools_, but it’s also _more awful_, because I’m older every time, and every time I think I should finally know how to keep it together... and it ends with you having to find my pants.” 

Eliot lay down beside him. “I don’t _have_ to find your pants.” 

A small huff; not a laugh. Eliot rubbed Quentin’s thigh, tried to warm him up. 

“Julia will be here in fifteen minutes,” Eliot said. 

Quentin moaned through his teeth. “I know.” 

“Seeing her and Kiran will probably help.” 

“I _know_.” A little frustrated now; that was probably a good thing. 

“I’ll help you. I have never in my life harmed a baby, not even through neglect.” 

Quentin snorted. 

“Theoretically, I even like babies.” 

Quentin rolled over onto his side, which was a good start. His reddened eyes betrayed a recent crying jag. That wasn’t unusual, but Eliot hated it when Quentin cried alone. He always said that to Quentin – _I hate thinking about you crying without me, come and get me, you’re not bothering me_ – but Quentin was never convinced. Eliot cupped Quentin’s chin – sharp, stubbly, familiar – and Quentin turned his face into Eliot’s hand. Nuzzled him. 

“El,” he said, soft. “Please find my pants.” 

Eliot wasn’t sure he ever got used to Quentin’s bad patches – he got better at weathering them, at learning what helped and what didn’t. But it was always hard: his own stomach filled with lead. He wondered if, this time, he would be strong enough to cope, or if this would be the time he’d break, when he would fail Quentin. He slept badly; he missed Margo. 

But it helped when Quentin made his way downstairs, still in his Hufflepuff socks, with clothes on top of them now, and took the bundle of Kiran from Julia’s arms, and kissed her head, and then kissed Julia’s cheek. And when Julia left, and Kiran realised her Mom was missing and made increasingly loud and more horrified sounds, Quentin sang to her in his terrible raspy voice. He made faces at her until she cheered up enough to start trying to grab his hair. 

Eliot took her when Quentin’s arms got too tired: she looked up at him, her eyes huge, dark, unreadable. And he felt that clench in his stomach, the same as he felt sometimes when he looked Quentin, and which he remembered, too, from another life: that he was holding something infinitely breakable and infinitely precious, and he was afraid to hold it too tightly, and afraid to let it go. 

She was so small and so warm. 

Quentin leant his head on Eliot’s chest, on the other side from Kiran. “She’s pretty great,” he said, putting his finger on the sole of her foot. 

**

“How is he?” Julia mouthed at Eliot, as he set the French press on the table. Quentin had insisted he’d change Kiran’s diaper: they could hear him upstairs, still singing to her. 

Eliot bit his lip. “He’s been worse; he’s been better.” 

Julia tugged at the ends of her freshly cut hair. She always got the same look when she knew Quentin was struggling – not of sadness or resignation: she looked energised, as though she was going to fix this, immediately. She never stopped getting that look, no matter how many times Q was down, and Eliot sort of loved her for it. 

“I wish I could be here, more...” Julia tried to hide a yawn against her wrist. “How are _you_ holding up?”

“You’ve just had a baby.” Eliot threw away the water he’d been using to heat the cups, slowly poured in the coffee. “No one expects you to also solve Q’s problems. Anyway, bringing over Kiran is probably the best thing you could do...” 

“But –” Julia began, just as Quentin returned. She turned her attention to the coffee Eliot had given her, carefully stirring in her almond milk. Quentin sat down with Kiran on his lap – she reached for, and managed to grab, a fork. Intense concentration as she struggling to hold it, and then she banged it as hard as she could manage on the edge of the table. 

“She’s just discovered banging,” Julia said, trying to intervene. 

“We’d noticed.” Eliot had developed a headache over the course of the afternoon. 

Quentin reached for her plastic giraffe; eased the fork out of her grip. She squawked unhappily. “I know. It’s not as loud with the giraffe, is it? But you can whack her harder, and we won’t worry about you getting hurt.” 

“Fuck.” Julia shoved her cup away, coffee slopping over the side. “It’s not fair that you can’t have one of your own. If I were still a goddess, I’d bestow one on you.” 

“That might not be ethical.” Eliot was looking carefully at Quentin. Lately, talking about even the possibility of having a kid rendered him unable to speak; made his eyes dark and expressionless. 

Quentin swallowed. The giraffe slipped out of Kiran’s grip, and he gave it back to her. “We’ve tried really hard,” he said, soft. “Looking for a baby by magic... That’s what crazy people do.” 

“We could go to Fillory and steal one. I mean, like. One who needs to be stolen.” Julia bit her lip. “That sounded horrible.” 

“The human population in Fillory is actually pretty small,” Eliot said. “And they’re a lot better at looking after the vulnerable parts of society than we are.” 

Kiran made a wild lunge for Quentin’s cup. Julia caught it in time; touched Kiran’s cheek. “I know; I know you’ve thought of everything. It just makes me so... You’ve been through so much, Quentin. Both of you. I hate seeing you this sad.” 

Quentin shifted in his seat. Readjusted wriggling Kiran, let her grasp his chin experimentally. “It’s not... I’d still have depression, Jules.” 

“But doesn’t it make it worse?” Julia asked. 

Quentin shook his head. His hair was getting too long, falling into his eyes. Bangs peppered with grey. “My therapist says it’s grief, the part about not having kids. The worthlessness, bleakness – that’s the depression.” He swallowed, looked up at Eliot and back down at Kiran. “But it’s not like I can separate it out, can I? Like am I legitimately grieving something or is my brain just broken?” He shrugged. “Who knows.” 

Julia sighed, reached for his hand. “I wish your brain would give you a break.” 

If Eliot had said that, Quentin would have shrugged him off, but he squeezed Julia’s hand. “I’m lucky. I can dick around at home all day if that’s what I need. Fixing things. Making things. Or not doing anything. And El loves me.” He looked up at Eliot. “For some reason.” 

“For some reason,” Eliot agreed, pulling his chair closer to Quentin, so he was bracketed on both sides by his people. 

Julia leant her head on Quentin’s shoulder. “I don’t think it’s helpful to think about whether we’re lucky or unlucky. Probably. I get mad at myself for having a hard time, and then I remember that terrible stuff has happened, even if beautiful stuff has happened too.” 

“You’ve internalised the good parts of therapy, that’s for sure.” Quentin’s voice was light, closer to teasing that Eliot had expected to hear after the earlier conversation. Lighter than he felt Julia deserved to hear, after she’d pried like that. 

Julia laughed. “I think I get it from you.” 

Kiran wriggled, made a grab for Julia’s hair. Hung on. Quentin worked to untangle them. 

“You know what I wish?” Julia said, as she took Kiran into her arms. “That we could all go out for a smoke.” 

Eliot wanted to say that nothing was stopping them: but they’d all quit years ago. He nodded at Julia, said, “Magic, it can’t give you babies, it can’t give you satisfying, carcinogen-free cigarettes: what is it good for?” 

Julia laughed. Quentin had resorted to bouncing Kiran up and down: she was getting to the point where nothing was entertaining her, and she probably needed to sleep. But he glanced up at Eliot, and smiled one of his adoring, surprising smiles. Eliot lived for those. 

**

Quentin texted to say he’d be back in half an hour; Eliot had been so busy he’d hardly noticed Q wasn’t at home. Harriet had discovered a Magician in Winnipeg who was abusing and preying on a network of young hedges, and Eliot had been doing his best to figure out the details of what was going on and how they could untangle the Magician’s network. 

The doorbell rang: was it Q already? He stretched; neck aching. It would be weird for Quentin to actually _remember_ his keys, but he could have spelled the door open. _If_ he remembered he was a Magician. He wondered if Quentin had been at therapy or had been seeing Julia. It was pretty rare for Q to go anywhere else these days, and as Eliot descended the stairs, he devoted a portion of his mind to worrying about whether that was something they needed to work on. 

Rhonda, Dan and a bigger kid, a girl, were standing on the porch. 

The girl looked up at him, jaw trembling. Eliot wasn’t sure if she was trying to contain fury or sadness. “He broke it! I _hate_ having a brother!” 

“They’re a real pain,” Eliot agreed, remembering his own brothers, and then wondered if that was a politic thing to say to a kid. “I’m Eliot. I’m the one who doesn’t fix things.” 

The girl’s brow furrowed. 

Rhonda coughed. “This is Lia, my eldest. I’m sorry to drop by like this, and just after your husband fixed the remote-controller for us so beautifully. Next time I’ll bring a cake.” 

“You don’t have to do that. I’m sure Quentin will be happy to take a look.” Eliot wondered if he had to invite them in. His suburban Mom small talk left a lot to be desired, and he really did have an important deadline. But on the other hand: Quentin _would_ love to take a look. “Nice to meet you, Lia. What happened?” 

“Dan _broke_ it. Because he’s a _baby!_ I told him it’s mine.” Her hands were balled into fists: it was definitely rage making her quiver. 

Dan’s face was sticky with tears, and something that was presumably chocolate. Rhonda looked exhausted: Eliot sensed he hadn’t been the only one having an intense afternoon. Lia held out a – a robot on wheels? It looked like the kind of thing Quentin invented when he needed to do something with his hands. 

“Let’s put it on the kitchen table,” Eliot decided. 

Lia followed him, holding the robot carefully. Dan tried to climb up the stairs, and wailed when Rhonda herded him away. “He can go up there, if he wants?” Eliot said, trying to be accommodating. He wondered if Dan would go into the bedroom, and whether anything particularly private was lying around. Like Margo’s cock. 

“You are having a tough day, huh?” Rhonda said: Eliot thought she was talking to him, and wondered how she knew, but realised she was talking to Dan. 

Dan squirmed in her arms. “Want blue ice cream.” 

Lia gripped Eliot’s hand with surprising strength and propelled him towards the table. “See,” she held up a tiny plastic piece. “He broke this part, and then this part snapped when Mom tried to put it back in. It’s definitely broken.” She spoke with profound resignation. 

“I’m pretty sure Quentin can fix that.” 

Lia let go of his hand, though Eliot felt a sticky residue remaining on his skin. She looked suspicious. “Neither of my Moms ever fix anything, even if they say they will.” 

Eliot looked at Rhonda (and how had he managed not to notice she was queer before? Maybe she’d turn out to be a Magician too: he clearly wasn’t paying enough attention). “She’s not sparing your feelings at all, is she?” 

“I’m just telling the truth.” Lia sat down at the table, and put her chin on her hand. “Maybe now I’ll get a Hatchimal. Stephanie at the end of the block has _two.”_

Quentin showed up before Eliot needed to unpack any of that. He was carrying three different loaves of sourdough from the expensive bakery near the bus stop, which meant he’d probably been to therapy, and his eyes had a kind of glassy, unfocused look, which also tracked. Eliot got ready to shoo all these strangers out of the kitchen, if that was what Quentin needed. 

But Quentin smiled – a proper, dimpling smile. He said hi to Rhonda and Dan, and held out his hand to Lia. “I’m Quentin.” 

She didn’t shake his hand. “Are you going to be able to fix this?” 

“Lia! Ask politely – is this how we raised you to talk?” Rhonda snapped. Dan wailed – either at her tone or because he no longer wanted to be held. 

But Quentin wasn’t listening: he was examining the robot, holding the broken sections. He moved the pieces carefully on his palm, and Eliot thought he was probably restraining himself from working a mending right then. “I can fix this. It’ll take me – twenty minutes?” 

“Are you going to use glue?” Lia sounded suspicious. 

“No, I’m not.” 

“How are you going to fix it then?” She braced her hands on the table so she could stretch over and examine what Quentin was doing. 

“I’m going to heat the pieces very slightly, and weld them together. It takes longer than glue, but it’s much more durable. It’ll be just as strong as when it was new.” 

Rhonda put Dan down: freed, he ran straight for Quentin’s legs, so hard that Quentin almost lost his balance. Quentin hunkered down, offered Dan a high five. 

“I’m sorry for bothering you with all of this,” Rhonda said. “Honestly, if we’re taking up too much of your time, just say so.” 

Quentin didn’t reply, because he was doing his best to listen to something very long and breathy that Dan was trying to communicate to him, while being interrupted by Lia. But even if he hadn’t been distracted Eliot wouldn’t have been surprised if he didn’t reply. Quentin was kind of terrible around new people.

“You’re not,” Eliot promised. “He’s happy.” 

When they’d gone, Quentin brought the plastic toy to his workroom, and Eliot followed saying, “That was some good bullshit about welding.” 

“That is what I am going to do. Essentially. Just, you know. With magic. Do you think I should leave some visible joins so they don’t ask too many questions?” 

“I don’t know, are you able to bring yourself to do a repair job imperfectly?” 

Quentin smiled. “Not really.” 

“I didn’t realise Rhonda was queer,” Eliot said. “Until Lia talked about her two moms.” 

Quentin arranged the pieces in front of him. “Is she?” he said, like it didn’t really matter. Eliot guessed it didn’t matter so much to him – Quentin had a queer mom so the idea there of being queer parents around wasn’t new to him. To Eliot, it still seemed more magical than actual magic. That was partly why he wanted to have kids of his own. _Look_, he’d be saying to his ten-year-old self. _Look what you can have._

“How was therapy?” Eliot asked, and kissed the top of Quentin’s head. 

“Hmm.” Quentin carefully floated the tiny pieces above his palm. Getting to work on objects that were important to people – Quentin _loved_ that. He’d been way more proud when he’d fixed Julia’s grandmother’s teacup than he’d been when he’d fixed a complex magical mirror for Alice. The mirror was vital to Alice’s work, and the mending had taken Quentin weeks, but the fixed object hadn’t made Alice smile the way the teacup made Julia smile.

**

A week later – the doorbell rang. They were both home this time, and arrived at the door at approximately the same time. Quentin looked like he’d slept in his clothes, and Eliot was probably going to have to use some kind of incentive to get him to shower, but the fact that he was answering the door at all was a good sign. 

It was Lia and another kid. No adult supervision: was that OK, Eliot wondered. Had they run away? 

The other kid had brown skin like Lia, but was a lot taller. She was hunching, hands hidden in the bottom of her sweater, trying to make herself smaller. Looking at her, Eliot remembered exactly that feeling, and it made his chest hurt. 

“This is Stephanie,” Lia said, pushing her forward. “She lives in the big house down the block.” 

Stephanie ducked her head and murmured something incomprehensible. 

“It’s her hatchimal.” Lia took a strange purple object from Stephanie’s hand, and held it out to Quentin. “It’s stopped moving.”

_Do you_ want _it to move?_ Eliot wondered, but Quentin took it from her, turning the thing in his hands. 

“Does your Mom know you’re here?” Eliot asked. 

“We’re on a top secret mission,” Lia said, just as Quentin said, “You two should come in. I’ll have this fixed before you know it.” 

“I’m going to... talk to Rhonda,” Eliot said, but no one seemed to be listening to him. _Good thing someone in this house has some sense._ He felt pleasantly martyred. 

**

If fixing plastic toys was a job, and it was the kind of job for which you had an agent, then Lia Mendez, age eight, was Quentin’s agent. She showed up many more times over the next few weeks, with various kids in tow, sometimes accompanied by apologetic parents. And broken toys. 

Lia was not grateful for anything Quentin did, and was never, ever polite. Eliot kind of loved her. She would brush past him if he answered the door, calling for Quentin, while the kid or the kid’s parents would stare at Eliot, looking like they weren’t totally sure how they’d ended up on his porch. 

“I’m glad you made friends with Lia,” Eliot said, encouraging Quentin away from his current project and putting lasagna in front of him. “She’s good for you.” 

Quentin nodded seriously. “She has a really great collection of Legos.” 

Eliot laughed. “She’s found so many clients for you. I kind of feel like the Kunickis are taking advantage though, with that tricycle? They could pay someone to fix that.” 

“I’m not sure anyone else could properly match the Dora-the-Explorer paint job.” Quentin looked down at the lasagna as though he wasn’t sure how it had entered his life. “Did you make this? It’s amazing.” 

Eliot nodded. It _was_ amazing. “Maybe you should start charging for what you do.” 

Quentin looked horrified. “We don’t need the money.” 

That was kind of... debatable, Eliot thought. They were making all their mortgage payments, but it wasn’t like they could afford a vacation in Provence. “You have a skill that they don’t have. I’m not saying you should charge the kids to fix their broken fire-trucks. But you could set up a business? For adults who want stuff to be mended. Q’s Toy Rehab.” 

“Q’s Toy Rehab sounds like the name of a business a serial killer would have.” Quentin squished the pasta around on his plate. “It’s not...” He swallowed. “It’s for fun.” 

Eliot played with his wine glass, tilting it towards the light. Quentin never valued anything he did: he acted as though anyone could fix or create precious objects. At least now he wasn’t putting his life on the line again and again, as though the only thing that mattered was running towards his own death. But maybe that was because no one was asking him to. It made Eliot feel cold all over, to think of that, and he didn’t know how to put it into words. 

“You can have fun and place value on what you do at the same time,” Eliot said, at last. 

“I do value it. It’s... El, it feels more important than anything I’ve done in years, because I know what I’m doing makes those kids happy.” He swallowed some wine so quickly he couldn’t possibly have tasted it. “That’s dumb, I know, when you do such valuable work...” 

Eliot raised a hand. “Don’t. It’s not dumb. When you say that I worry you still don’t... think you’re worth anything.” 

Quentin put down his fork. Took a careful breath. “I’m treating myself like I’m made of glass. Because maybe I am? I’m hanging out with Kiran, and letting Lia bring me toys to fix, because that’s safe, and it’s all I can handle. I... When I fix stuff, I feel like I’m contributing to... the world, I guess, just a little bit. And that feels good. But that’s all the good I can handle. I can’t do anything bigger, I can’t be bigger...” 

Q bowed his head. 

“Hey.” Eliot put his hand on Quentin’s neck, tugged at his hair a little. “You’re doing so well, baby.” 

“I’m not.” Quentin rubbed his face. Then sighed, “I know – I’m taking my meds, and I’m getting up in the morning, and I’m trying to participate in life.” 

“And that’s really fucking hard.” 

“It is.” Quentin looked up at Eliot: big wet eyes, stubbled jaw, anxious expression. “It’s hard, and it’s hard to admit that it’s hard.” 

“I’m glad what you’re doing feels safe.” Eliot drained his glass. “I want it feel good, baby. I just don’t want you to be taken for granted.” 

Quentin shrugged. “I don’t think Lia would let that happen.” 

“If you did have a business, she’d have to take a cut.” 

“20%, at least. She’d probably argue me up to 30.” Quentin poured himself more wine, offered some to Eliot. Eliot covered his glass with his hand, because that was his life now, too. Moderation. “El, I... I want you to know I see how hard you’re working, too – I know it’s not always easy in your head, either. Or to look after me.” 

Eliot wanted to joke, not acknowledge that. He also wanted hold Quentin, crush him too close. Taste him: bite him, his neck, his jaw. 

“We’re doing our best.” Quentin leaned into Eliot, smelling of wine, eyes impossibly earnest. “Our best isn’t bad.” 

Eliot bumped his forehead against Quentin’s. Sometimes Q’s intensity still surprised him. The way Quentin loved him, the way he gave of himself, over and over, and didn’t even seem to realise he was doing it. 

“I miss Margo,” Quentin said, very softly. Which was exactly what Eliot had been thinking – god, he missed Bambi sometimes. He needed her small hands containing his large ones, her laugh, the way giving orders made her feel free. 

“Me too.” Eliot reached for Quentin’s plate, stacked it on top of his own. “I could wrap some projects up with the Library over the next month, then we could go to Fillory.” 

Quentin nodded – he actually looked excited, which wasn’t something Eliot had seen on his face for a long time, and hadn’t realised he’d been missing. He tilted his face to Eliot’s, kissed him, wine-sour and scratchy. 

**

Once they’d agreed dates with Margo, Quentin began tinkering with toys for Fen’s two kids, Rupert and Birch. He was creating something with long sapphire wings that ran on clockwork and magic, but was thwarting all Quentin’s attempts to make it become airborne: he seemed to be enjoying the challenge. Today, however, he was tinkering with a tiny robot; it looked a little like Wall-E. 

“Do you think I could give this to Lia?” Quentin was painting tiny red rims onto the robot’s wheels. “There’s hardly any magic in it. Probably no one would notice.” 

“I think that’s frowned upon.” Eliot watched as Quentin scratched his ear, getting a streak of red on his nose. It always surprised him how Quentin could do impossibly delicate work, and still be so messy. “Besides, Dan would probably step on it.”

That was the problem with all of the toys Quentin made, Eliot thought – they were so beautiful, and not at all durable.

“Yeah.” Quentin brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Maybe I can take the magic part out. She’d like to know how the clockwork functions anyway.” 

His cell rang, causing them both to jump, because no one ever called them. “Julia,” Quentin said, answering the phone. As he stood up, Eliot removed the paintbrush from his hand. 

Quentin went into the hall. Eliot cleared up a splodge of paint from the edge of Quentin’s work table, and then decided it was pointless. He examined the iridescent blue wings of Quentin’s flying-creation – brittle and thin as paper. Eliot kind of wanted a vest in the same colour. 

“Kiran’s sick.” Quentin leant against the door frame, still holding the phone. 

Eliot tried not to shudder, imagining vomit and snot. “Oh god. What are we going to pick up from her?” 

“Nothing, she’s staying with Julia.” 

Eliot felt – guilty relief. He’d dealt with two cases of abuse of hedge-witches that week, and Alice had sent over way too many files. His head hurt; his fingers hurt. Maybe his magic hurt. He wanted to spend three hours on the couch with Quentin, and not think about anything. And then cook something pointlessly complicated, with three different sauces. 

“Oh.” Eliot swallowed. “Doesn’t Julia need a break?” 

“Kiran needs her Mom. And Julia needs Bill.” Quentin blinked, and suddenly he was crying: little gasps through his nose, tears, trembling jaw. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, swallowing wetly. 

And all Eliot felt, at that moment, was very tired. He wanted a drink. He wanted – to ingest something much stronger than weed. He wanted to forget about everything. 

He put his arm around Quentin’s shoulders. Quentin went stiff – he usually melted into touch, but sometimes when he was really upset, being held didn’t seem to help. Eliot felt like affection was all he had to offer, and Quentin’s shudder rendered him useless. 

“Baby.” Eliot brushed his fingers through Quentin’s hair. He could smell the turpentine and WD-40 from Quentin’s last project. 

“I don’t know why I’m...” Quentin tugged at his hair: all wet face, too thin. “It’s the same old shit. It reminds me that Kiran isn’t ours, doesn’t really have anything to do with us.” 

“Quentin...” Eliot dropped his voice, trying to find the words. 

“If you say we can keep trying, I’m going to fucking scream.” Quentin’s voice was trembling: with anger, now, too.“I can’t, El. _I can’t, I can’t._ I can’t keep hoping. It’s done, we’re done. I’m going to grieve and I’m going to love you, and I’m going to... I’m going to... keep going.” 

Eliot thought maybe he was trembling too: a potent intensity, hot and painful, coursed through his body. His knees were weak, his head swam. He was alone – god, they were both so alone. 

He didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly he was kneeling on the carpet, in front of Quentin. His bad hip ached. He felt far outside of his own body, and he when he looked up at Quentin he categorized the things he could see from this angle: an old shaving cut on the underside of Quentin’s jaw, a spot of toothpaste at the side of his mouth. He drew in a breath. It burnt. _Oh, I’m crying too,_ he thought. _This is what crying feels like._

It was awful. Too hot, aching, like having a cold. _How does Quentin do this all the time?_

A silence: his own breath loud in his ears. He felt that aloneness again, settling onto his shoulders like a blanket. Then: Quentin stepped forward, enveloped him. Eliot’s eyes burnt, he buried his face in Quentin’s chest – smell, so familiar, of worn wool and lavender detergent. Eliot gripped the back of Quentin’s sweater. 

“El.” Quentin face pressed against the top of his head. “Oh, El.” 

He felt himself swaying, like he was on a ship in a high wind. But it was just Quentin, trying to soothe him. Rocking him like he’d rock Kiran. Blindly, he tugged Quentin down to him. His own mouth felt damp, strange, but he kissed Quentin anyway: the corner of his lips, the junction of his jaw. 

“I love you,” Quentin said, leaning his forehead against Eliot’s. His face was wet, he was snuffling, nose leaking. He sounded tense, almost frantic: “You’re enough; you’re everything. Don’t feel like you’re not enough.” 

Eliot pressed their faces together. Why was he kneeling down? God, this was uncomfortable. “I know; I know. It’s not about that. It’s not about me. It’s... it’s just so fucking hard.” 

Quentin cupped his hand around Eliot’s cheek. “It’s so fucking hard.” 

Eliot took Quentin’s hands, braced himself, got back onto his feet. He felt horribly vulnerable, as though he was naked in the Neitherlands. He didn’t want to let go of Quentin. “Can we go to bed?” 

Quentin nodded, led him back upstairs. Helped him out of his vest, his shirt, his pants. Laid them carefully on the chair, on top of Quentin’s own pile of sweaters and pants. Quentin was wearing glorified pyjamas: it took him only moments to strip down to his boxers. And then they were skin-to-skin, pressed up against each other. Eliot wrapped his legs around Quentin’s thigh, pulled the covers up to their shoulders, wrapped himself around Quentin, as though he were a blanket. Tucked his face in against Quentin’s neck. And then at last that terrible, vulnerable feeling began to leach away. 

“We’d agreed I wouldn’t go to bed between 9am and 6pm,” Quentin said, his fingers caressing the back of Eliot’s neck. 

“I’m making an exception.” Eliot rubbed his wet face on the sheet. “I feel like I don’t have any skin.” 

Quentin nodded, lips against Eliot’s forehead. “Feeling things is terrible, isn’t it?” 

“I spent so much time trying to give it up,” Eliot agreed. He tried to worm his body closer to Quentin’s but they were as close as they could be. After all the time, it was still terrifying to give this much of himself to Quentin. And yet: it was the only thing that helped, the only thing that made living less terrifying. 

“Me too,” Quentin said. 

“Did you? You were terrible at it.” 

“I know.” Quentin kissed his forehead. “I was really, really bad at it. Lucky you – you always wanted a highly-strung nerd, right?” 

“I did.” Eliot lifted his head from Quentin’s shoulder, found his mouth instead. Kissed him: salty, soft, needy. And kissed him again, and again. Quentin turned onto his side, pressing his sturdy, familiar body into Eliot’s. Soft sounds in his throat, his skin hot. Slide of mouth against mouth: the tingling edge of lip, the pressure of tooth. Eliot relaxed into, felt the trembling within himself subside – or at least reduce to something familiar. 

“I get lost in my head,” Quentin said, mouth brushing Eliot’s forehead. Haze of breath against skin. “You know that. I forget – I forget how hard this is for you, too.” 

Eliot gripped Quentin’s hip, his ass. He just wanted him: more and more of Quentin. God, he always wanted Quentin. 

“Baby,” he murmured. Unable to find any words. He urged Quentin onto his back – felt Quentin resist, lips parted to say something, and then turn pliant. He pressed his face up to Eliot’s, rubbed cheeks and lips together in something too clumsy to be called a kiss. 

“I’m here, El,” Quentin said, and Eliot kissed Quentin’s neck, nipped the soft skin. Quentin’s eyes shone with emotion: he knew what Eliot wanted, and what he, Quentin, was giving. 

Eliot dipped his fingers into the waistband of Quentin’s boxers; the skin there silky soft. He wanted Quentin, wanted to suck Quentin into his mouth, hold the heat of him, and hold, and hold. 

Quentin wriggled out of his boxers; rubbed his cock, half-hard, into Eliot’s palm. The warmth of it, the small, familiar shape. Eliot pressed his face into Quentin’s groin: not licking, not sucking, just breathing in the musky-bitter scent, the long, wiry hair against his face. Quentin was such a furry mammal: hairy thighs, groin, hair growing soft and lush over his ass cheeks, around his asshole. Eliot breathed him in, breathed him in. Felt the scent, heat of Quentin’s body travelling straight to his cock: throb of arousal. 

“El,” Quentin was saying, soft, “Oh, Eliot.” His fingers in Eliot’s hair: not tugging, not asking for anything, just there. 

Eliot opened his mouth, licked the velvety cock-head between his lips, felt the pressure of it between tongue and palate, the yielding heat of it. Sucked Quentin into his body, in, in – Quentin’s muscles tightened in response, his breath hitched. 

Eliot pulled back, tasting Quentin in his mouth, the salt of pre-cum. “Can I finger you?” 

Quentin was flushed, still tear-stained. Mouth open: as though, after all this time, he still didn’t expect to be treated with tenderness. “Yes, god yes, Eliot, yes.” 

The neediness in his voice, the _wanting_ – Eliot felt it settle in his bones, a comfort, a joy. Better than whiskey. Quentin drew up his thighs, spread his legs, as Eliot found the lube, warmed it between his hands. He leant his face on Quentin’s thigh, rubbing his cheek against the soft-furry warmth, breath falling on Quentin’s cock. He eased a finger inside. Raw heat: Quentin arching towards him: taking him so easily. Whimpering at the back of his throat: he was unafraid to make as much noise as he needed to. 

The rhythm was familiar, easy to find, and yet somehow always new: it felt like something was beginning every time he fingered Quentin. That heat around him, almost unbearable: Eliot braced his forearm against Quentin’s thigh, dropped his head, managed to suck Quentin’s cock into his mouth as his fingers worked their way deep inside – and Quentin shivered, keened. Let himself be taken, and taken. 

**

“Do you think going to Fillory will help?” Quentin asked. They were sitting on the porch, sipping whiskey. The air smelt of smog and rain. 

Quentin folded up next to Eliot, a solid, warm shape in the dim light. Close enough that Eliot could, if he wanted to, gather him in against his side. Eliot felt – raw still, like his skin wasn’t quite covering his bones. They’d showered, eaten: there was no way he could still taste Quentin at the back of his mouth. And yet, he felt him there: the musk of him against the tender skin of his throat. 

Eliot curled his finger around the glass, wished he had a cigarette. “I don’t know. Maybe. Do you think so?” 

Quentin played with his hair: clean, now, but needing to be trimmed. He stretched his fingers wide. “There are so many answers to that question. We’ll see Margo, which always helps. We’ll see Fen, and the kids, which sometimes helps and sometimes makes us feel terrible. We’ll be in a ridiculous magical country, and it’ll be beautiful and crazy, and we’ll be reminded of all the terrible things that happened to us there. And all the wonderful things. And...” He swallowed. “We’ll remember that it all moves and changes, and the thing that stays constant is each other.” 

He looked at Eliot: his expression was hard to see in the dim light, but his eyes seemed huge, and wet. Eliot took his hand, the thick-fingered, flailing hand, and pressed it against his cheek. Felt its warmth settle against his skin. 

“We could stay there, you know,” Eliot said. “I know before it... was too hard, for us both. But things, as you so rightly said, change.” 

“I don’t think I want to leave, yet.” Quentin looked out over the yard, and Eliot followed his gaze. The tricycle Quentin had fixed, leaning against the gate, ready to be picked up. The potted azalea that Rhonda had given to them. Along the path was a collection of pebbles Quentin had painted with the colours of tiles from a long-ago mosaic: Eliot couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there. 

“Too many toys left to fix?” 

Quentin butted his shoulder with the top of his head. “But maybe we’ll stay one day. Anything can happen, right?”

“Right,” Eliot agreed. And it felt both good and frightening, to know that: that the worlds were wide open, and they were here, tiny, insignificant, together. 

**

“You’re really going to be gone for three weeks?” Lia said, taking a second cookie from the box. “What if something breaks?” 

“Does your Mom know you’re here?” Eliot asked. Wondered if he should stop her from taking a third cookie: decided it wasn’t his business. 

“Uh-huh.” Lia pointed to a tiny carousel. “That belonged to Abuelita, and it’s broken.” 

Quentin turned the carousel to see where the clockwork snagged. “This is beautifully made. How old is it?” 

“I don’t know – it was Mama’s, and it was Abuelita’s before that, and she’s more then eighty years old.” 

“I’ll take my time with this.” Quentin ran his fingers over the base, looking for a way to open it. “It deserves care” 

“OK. It’s actually a boring toy.” Lia stood closer, looking at what Quentin was doing. “Mom said do you want us to pay you and she’ll call over later but she’s waiting for a video call from work.” 

“You don’t need to pay.” Quentin looked up from the toy. “And yes, we’ll be gone for three weeks at least, and if something breaks, I’ll look at it when I get back. I promise.” 

“What if a lot of things break?” Lia chewed her lip. “What if everything breaks?” 

“Then I’ll be very busy,” Quentin said. 

“Everything won’t break,” Eliot cut in, imagining them coming home to roomfuls of dejected toys. 

Eliot thought the carousel would be the last thing Quentin looked at before they left for Fillory, but Skyler-from-the-corner showed up at 9pm with a broken Lego Batman, saying, “I just got this for Logan, and the base snapped, and he won’t stop crying, and I’m travelling tomorrow, and I’m so sorry...” 

Quentin calmly took the piece of plastic, while Eliot said reassuring things to Skyler, and gave her a glass of white wine. He’d been packing wine for Fillory, so it seemed kind of a shame to open a new bottle, but giving Skyler a drink was a humanitarian act right now. She wiped mascara off her cheek and told Eliot that Quentin was her hero. 

As Quentin fixed the Batman toy, he became calmer, fingers confident and steady. Eliot hadn’t realised he’d been getting nervous about the trip, but he should have: change always set Quentin on edge. After Skyler left, they sat at the table, sharing the wine, as the street lights flicked on outside. Quentin said, “I’d sort of forgotten, you know, how much it matters to you when you’re a kid. These little toys.” 

Eliot kissed his forehead. “At least a little bit of your love has somewhere to go.” 

Quentin snorted. “That’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said. I’m finally rubbing off on you.” 

**

Travel via two different portals and then via the Neitherlands. Smoke-sweet scent of magic, Quentin hunching in on himself, fingers a vice around Eliot’s hand. Eliot didn’t like it either: they were walking through bad memories. But at least magical travel was over quickly, a headache, blinding white, but brief. 

Another world: the sweet wind on their faces. Impossible to be there – Eliot’s hips and knees always shook with the strangeness. And yet, it felt unimaginable that they could ever be anywhere else. A Fillorian hillside, looking down at Whitespire. Flags flying. 

It was warm: early summer. A hazy golden heat; the perfect temperature. Eliot felt muscles relaxing, saw an uncomplicated joy bloom on Quentin’s face. Quentin’s hand found his again, but this time it was to tug Eliot downhill towards the castle, an excited squeeze. 

The magic that brought them here was too inexact to let them tell Fen and Margo exactly which day they would arrive. They’d only managed to figure out what month it would be, so only Fen was at the castle when they arrived, with Birch and Rupert, but neither of the other two kings. There were shrieks, hugs. A bear greeted them in a honey-deep voice. 

As they went up to the main chambers, Fen slipped her hands around Eliot’s arm. She was so small beside him, but she stood very erect. She moved through the space as though she owned it, with almost the same authority Margo had always possessed. 

Eliot realised he’d missed Fen, too, and felt guilty for not having thought about her in the long months they’d been away. “Don’t tell me about politics,” Eliot said, kissing her cheek. “Tell me how you’ve been.” 

Quentin let Birch and Rupert open his shoulder-bag: they placed the shimmering clockwork dragons and the tiny dancing foxes he’d made on the table, and rooted out the tablet they’d been promised. 

“Will it have longer battery-life than the last one?” Birch asked. Rupert was already flicking through the range of games Quentin had installed before they’d left. 

Fen picked up one of the tiny foxes, smiled as it walked over her palm. “I’m sorry my boys are such ungrateful wretches.” 

Quentin laughed. “Kids are terrible.” 

He didn’t look downcast. 

Eliot wondered how Fillory could ever make him feel terrible: right now the air smelt like plum-blossom, and his dearest people were all close by. He heard a carriage coming through the castle gates; Fen looked up, “That’ll be my wife.” 

She and Quentin were standing by the window, faces framed in light. “You go down,” Quentin said, “Surprise her.” 

Eliot followed the curving stone staircases, hurrying, drawn to Margo as though he were a fish on a line, and she was reeling him in. 

Bambi was giving a box to a palace guard; when she saw Eliot her whole face changed. She held out her hands to him, and he took them both in his, and kissed them, saying, “My King.” 

“Tough month?” she asked, kissing his cheek and the corner of his mouth. 

“I’ve brought champagne.” 

And she kissed him again, harder.


End file.
